


Last Day on Earth

by Saucery



Series: The Sterek Porn Collection [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Apocaporn, Dirty Talk, Drama, End of the World, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marathon Sex, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Porn, Requited Love, Ridiculous, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Snark, Stamina, Supernatural Elements, Underage Sex, Virginity, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles refuses to die a virgin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Day on Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aquamarinespinnerlover](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aquamarinespinnerlover).



* * *

 

Derek's leaning against the wall of Stiles's bedroom, keeping watch by the window and scanning the skyline with narrowed eyes, when Stiles bursts into the room, arms flailing, and skids to a halt. His jaw drops when he sees Derek.

"What're _you_ doing here?” he demands, then immediately shakes his head. "No, wait, don't bother answering that. 'Same thing we do every night, Pinky.' Right? Except I'm the brain. And we are so not taking over the world. Because it's _ending_. Won't be anything left to take over. Fuck.”

Derek pushes off the wall and walks toward him. Stiles's scent is peculiar. Fear-tinged. His voice has the underpinnings of hysteria. "What did you find?”

Stiles shoves a piece of blue cloth in his face, and Derek almost sneezes, because it smells ancient. "What's this look like to you?”

Derek stares at the silver filigree woven into the cloth, in complex patterns that look like utter gibberish. The cloth's black in places, as though it's rotted. "A star-chart," he hazards, because one of the patterns resembles Orion.

"Bingo. Always knew you were smarter than you looked.”

Derek glares. "Hey.”

"Yeah, 'hey'. What the hell am I doing on the last day of my life? Explaining things to a monosyllabic werewolf," Stiles mutters. "We're all gonna be _dead_ , Derek. In - ” Stiles glances at his wristwatch " - about four hours. It'll start when the sun rises.”

"Wait a - ”

"I'm done waiting. I just - do you know that I just got off the phone with my dad? He's in freaking Denver for that stupid convention, so I can't even hug him one last time. Before I - ” Stiles swallows. His voice thickens, but he doesn't cry. "I couldn't tell him the world was ending. I just said that I love him, that I hope he's having fun in Denver and that he's picking up cute chicks in cop uniforms, and - ”

"Stiles.” Derek grabs Stiles by the shoulders. "Slow down.”

Stiles breathes shallowly. And blinks suspiciously bright eyes at Derek. "The world. Is. Ending. That slow enough for you?”

"Maybe if you'd stop insulting my intelligence," Derek drawls, "we might get somewhere. _Explain_.”

"Fine, fine. Not like we've got anything better to do before the earth explodes, huh?” Stiles pulls away, running a trembling hand through his hair. "I was trying to find out how to make that goddamn paralyzing potion for the Alpha pack, and what I found was - ” Stiles shakes the piece of cloth, tossing it onto his bed. " - this. It's genuine, by the way. An actual page from an actual grimoire. It's - I can feel it. The magic's true. If Dr. Deaton wasn't currently being kidnapped by the Alphas, I'd have double-checked with him, but… as of now, I'm the only magic one in our motley crew.” 

"Where did you find it?” Derek bends to study the star-chart, not sure he's supposed to touch it; magical items don't always react to werewolves in predictable ways.

"In Dr. Deaton's basement. In a glass case. Pressed between the pages of his grimoire. And I… now I know why he got this _look_ on his face, sometimes, y'know? When he was training me. I mean, of _course_ it ain't a big deal if I don't master a random sigil. The world is ending. Who the fuck cares? It's better that nobody knows about it. It's better that they just - carry on. Until they can't.”

Derek stares. He can't smell a lie on Stiles. Stiles believes this. And maybe Stiles's magic is telling him that it's real, but it can't possibly be. Even if it is -

Even if it is, does that change anything? Maybe Deaton had the right of things.

It doesn't matter that the end is nigh. Derek has seen endings aplenty, and he's survived them all. Even the ones he didn't want to survive, that he didn't think he _could_ survive. He's just going to cope with this as though he will live through it, because no matter what Stiles says, no matter the truth of his terror-sweat and his thready pulse, Derek can't entirely believe it's true.

Stiles's body is practically vibrating with tension. "Fuck it. The rest of the pack don't even know it's the end of the world, but they're living it like it is. Scott's off boning Allison, Jackson's off boning Lydia, and Boyd's off with Isaac and Erica doing polyamory-type things that I probably shouldn't think about as often as I do while jerking off." He shakes his head violently, as if to dispel images (that Derek does not doubt are far too accurate), before stripping off his shirt.

And Derek's back to staring at him. "What - ”

"Don't even, Derek. We've been dancing around each other for eight months, already. And your showing-up-in-my-bedroom-unannounced routine doesn't really contradict anything I'm saying, since you've obviously claimed my bedroom as a part of your territory, the way you show up in it, and werewolves only have one reason to declare an unrelated human's territory as their own. Just ask Scott. Or Jackson." Stiles shrugs, dropping his balled-up T-shirt on the floor. "So. Take off your clothes."

Derek glowers. "You're underage - ”

"And we're about to die in, oh, three hours and forty-five minutes, give or take a couple minutes. Seriously, Derek? Are we gonna argue about this _now_?" Stiles unbuttons his jeans, jerky and business-like, and tugs them off. He's wearing SpongeBob SquarePants boxers. Of course he is.

"You don't smell like sex," Derek adds, even though he knows, from Stiles's tone, that Stiles won't be deterred. Stiles is wearing what Derek privately thinks of as his Mountain Ash expression - fierce determination and unwavering focus. It's unnerving, like it always is.

"Maybe that's because you don't have your hands down my pants? Just an idea." Stiles steps close, moonlight glimmering off his sweat-damp chest (he still smells more like terror than lust, more like sourness than musk), and grabs Derek's wrist. "C'mon. Time's a-wastin'. My virginity waits for no man. Or, um, wolf. I'm here, you want me, let's do this."

"That's not how - ”

"Shut. Up." And it's so surprising, hearing those words from Stiles, of all people, that Derek almost doesn't resist when Stiles lunges up to bite Derek's mouth.

 _Bite_ it. Not kiss it, not -

And that makes Derek's fangs threaten to emerge, but he won't injure Stiles, must not injure Stiles, so he pushes Stiles away -

He's not pushing Stiles away. He's pushing Stiles _back_ , but he's also following him, until they hit the very wall Derek was leaning against, until Stiles's mouth is open and panting against his and Derek has to lick into it, _has_ to, because it's hot and greedy and Stiles is smelling like lust, now, like he should, although there's still an undercurrent of fear to him that shouldn't be making Derek hard in his jeans, except for how it is.

Stiles is shaking. They should stop this. _Derek_ should stop this. Stiles is too young, and this is his first time, and - 

"Yeah," Stiles is saying, whisper-raw, as Derek finds his way to Stiles's throat, pressing his teeth there, just his teeth, perhaps a bit sharper than they should be, but not fangs. "Yeah, give it to me."

So Derek does, scratching his nails along Stile's bare belly until it clenches, tugging at the trail of too-soft hair leading to his groin, slipping a hand underneath those ridiculous boxers. It still burns a blank space into Derek's mind, to feel how hard Stiles is, a line of exquisite, unrelenting, wet-tipped desperation, dragging against his palm and making Stiles _keen_ like he's been injured.

Derek has to check that Stiles hasn't been injured - that's why he yanks the boxers down - but the way Stiles's dick jumps and leaks at that makes Derek fumble at his own jeans, get himself out and right up against Stiles, and Stiles bucks at that, wildly enough to nearly dislodge Derek, but Derek's teeth are closed on the juncture of Stiles's neck and shoulder, now, and Derek _will not_ be dislodged.

He isn't drawing blood, is he?

No, he isn't - there's no blood, no - 

Stiles is so _hard_ -

Derek curls a fist around the both of them, swiping a thumb upward to rub roughly across the sticky tip of Stiles's cock.

"S-sorry," says Stiles, for no reason at all, and then: "I'm coming, virgin, sorry - ”

And then, Stiles is coming, as promised, as _warned_ , and Derek can smell it before it happens, just before it happens, in enough time that he can let go and drop to his knees and _taste_ it, wrap his lips around it and taste the salty spurt of it, ignoring Stiles's loud, almost panicked shout. Stiles sounds like Derek is killing him, like he's terrified and simultaneously can't stand for it to stop, so Derek doesn't stop, sucking and sucking until Stiles can't come anymore, until Stiles is whimpering, his fingers tight in Derek's hair, trying to pull him off.

"I - c-can't, I'm - f-fuck - ”

Which, again, makes no sense. Derek licks Stiles clean, quick, hungry laps against Stiles's softened dick, then licks his thighs clean of stray drops, then his pubic hair, which he licks flat, thick with the scent of semen as it is, rubbing his face against it just to hear Stiles groan.

"I really _can't_ , Derek. Please - ”

And Derek relents, kissing his way up Stiles's chest, biting his way up, as gently as he can afford, worrying at those stiff little nipples until they're swollen, until Stiles's breath is hitching, his hands opening and closing futilely by his sides. Stiles's muscles are still lax with release but are beginning to tense again, his cock showing signs of twitching, blood rushing anew to the surface of Stiles's already-flushed skin, coloring him a tempting color.

"Okay," Stiles mumbles, shocky and strange, like a sleepwalker, "maybe I can go another round. No, I can definitely go another round. But maybe we can take this to the b - ”

Derek picks Stiles up and throws him on the mattress.

" - ed," Stiles finishes, around a startled huff, round-eyed and awed, gaping as Derek strips out of his jacket and almost ruins his shirt with his claws while wrenching it off. "Whoa, there, Greek God, take it easy."

"You're the one that wanted me to hurry up," Derek growls, and Stiles nods distractedly, still gaping.

"Point," he says, faintly, then lets out an 'oof' as Derek all but falls on him, torso-on-torso, skin-on-skin, all blazing heat and sex-smell, animal comfort and animal need. "Sh-should I," Stiles reaches for Derek's dick, "return the favor, or - ”

Derek pins Stiles's wrists to the bed.

" - or you could do all the work while also making it exceedingly difficult for me to complete my sentences. I approve of this plan. I - ” Stiles yelps " - hey, that was my ear you almost bit into, not a chew-toy for horny werewolves, okay? Although, gotta say, it seems that the ear _is_ a newly discovered erogenous zone of mine, so keep, um, doing that thing. That you're doing. With your tongue. Oh, god - ”

Derek doesn't roll his eyes. That would be meaningless, this close. Instead, he rolls his hips, and Stiles curses, back arching, turning his face to moan into Derek's neck.

"You're evil," Stiles says, and he's hard once more, trying not to thrust against Derek and failing, grumbling half-voiced complaints as Derek holds him still and _ruts_ against him, and eventually Stiles stops talking altogether, just tilting his head back and baring his throat and letting out long, shuddering cries, his pre-come making a slick, slippery mess between them, turning every thrust into a frustrating glide, so that Derek has to tighten his grip, has to use more force - 

Stiles _screams_ -

\- and comes again.

Derek makes himself pause. He has to let Stiles recover. Stiles needs to recover. Stiles is _human_ -

Stiles is -

"Holy…" Stiles trails off, eyes at an exhausted half-mast, lashes clumped together with tears, a wondrous, lost, disbelieving expression on his face. "You haven't… you still haven't…? Is this a werewolf thing? A werewolves-have-crazy-stamina thing? Because if it is, I have to say that I understand Allison's devotion to Scott like never before - ”

Derek flips him over.

" - and you can just keep going, you strict machine, you. Plug me in, et cetera. Are you gonna fuck me? 'Cause I have lube in that drawer over there, not that I've ever used it for anything except fucking myself - ”

Derek snarls.

" - and maybe I should shut up before you literally fuck me to death. Gotcha."

The thought of it, of Stiles in this bed, his lubed fingers moving in and out of his ass, thinking of Derek, thinking of -

No. He won't knot Stiles. Not like this. Not on a first night -

Last night -

Does it matter?

It does. He won't. Because it might be a first.

It _is_ Stiles's first. And pain has no place here.

So he settles over Stiles's back, instead, curving his body to the shape of Stiles's body, burying his nose in Stiles's nape and inhaling, letting his mouth suck marks into that lightly-furred skin in lieu of leaving a more permanent mark, in lieu of filling Stiles with his come, his _scent_ -

He rocks back and forth, slipping his dick between Stiles's thighs, which Stiles instinctively clasps together, because he's clever, always so clever. One day, Derek is going to have to reward him for it, spread him and nuzzle his ass, lick at him and lick at him and eat him out until he comes all over himself, and when he's relaxed, when his hole is still moist with Derek's saliva, Derek's going to hold him open and slide into him, slowly, until Stiles can feel every friction-hot inch of it, until all Stiles can do is lie there and take it, lie there and _writhe_ -

Derek only realizes that he's been talking aloud when he notices how red Stiles's ears are, when he notices how Stiles is trying to work a hand underneath himself, under both their weights, so that he can touch himself. So that he can -

"No," Derek says, his voice gone guttural and foreign even to himself. "You'll come untouched. You know you can. You _know_ \- ”

" _Fuck_ you - ”

"Another time," Derek grits out, almost amused despite the fevered haze in his mind, and that, more than anything else, makes Stiles choke on his own reply and come. He doesn't even cry out, this time. He just falls silent, his eyes rolling back in his head, his lips falling open, plush and yielding and slack -

And Derek's rocking turns vicious, turns into the sort of thing he's dreamed of doing a thousand times, taking this from Stiles, taking _him_ -

He isn't even sure Stiles is conscious when he shoots between Stiles's thighs and over Stiles's balls, and everything is gloriously full for a moment, gloriously _empty_ , an echo-chamber filled with his own rasping breath and roaring pulse, the juddering of his own heart inside of him, like the creaking of a great ship tossed by the tides of his blood.

Several minutes later, Stiles makes his wakefulness known by trying to nudge Derek off of him.

Derek obliges, but keeps an arm around Stiles's waist, heavy and solid, an anchor in the aftermath of a storm. He doesn't know whether it's Stiles he's anchoring, or himself.

Neither of them speaks, too winded to do so, but Stiles, predictably, recovers his speech sooner.

"This end-of-the-world business is pretty awesome, y'know?" Stiles murmurs, drowsily, his words muffled on account of the fact that his face is mostly mashed into his pillow, and he's apparently too tired to lift it. "Although, ugh, I'm on a wet spot the size of a small continent. This hasn't happened since I was nine. Not that I'm confessing to ever having wet the bed, or anything, but - heck, forget about lying on a wet spot, I _am_ a freakin' wet spot."

"Shower," Derek supplies, because he isn't capable of more than one-word answers, at the moment.

"Yeah, maybe when I can _stand_. Speaking of not being able to stand, why didn't you fuck me?"

"First," Derek replies.

"It's my first time? Meaning, I'm a virgin? Uh, was a virgin? Dude, you don't want to know - or, er, maybe you do? - about the range of sex toys that've been keeping me company since I discovered the wonders of the Internet - ”

Derek shuts him up with a kiss.

It works. Mostly because they're both too sleepy to carry on anything approximating a conversation, and Stiles has the bad manners to yawn into the kiss before resting a hand on Derek's chest, light as a feather, and going to sleep.

Derek stays up, because he must keep watch, no matter how much he wants to rest - and it might be the end of the world tomorrow, after all. Slumber is a waste, either way. 

His eyes are still open when the sun comes up.

Its rays are too pale to do more than lighten the darkness of Stiles's room, but they're enough to give Stiles's limbs the sheen of a pearl, something underwater and hidden deep, a rare thing, not merely a boy at the end of the world, asleep.

Now that the moon has set, and dangers of the supernatural variety are far less likely to find them, especially with Scott and Isaac on the morning watch, Derek finally shuts his eyes. He's aware of the star-chart pressed beneath his leg, the cloth of it velvety and rumpled and at odds with the starched cotton of Stiles's sheets, but it seems irrelevant, somehow, even unimportant.

Derek doesn't bother to stay awake for the apocalypse.

 

* * *

**  
fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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